by Cassie James
“I don’t love them,” I mutter. “I don’t even know what love is.”
“That’s bullshit, and we both know it.”
I simply shrug my shoulders.
Cara takes a deep breath and starts to say something else but then her face pales. “Ah, hell. This asshole has some timing.”
I turn to glance over my shoulder to see what’s gotten her so riled up all of a sudden. My foolish heart gets its hopes up thinking maybe it’s one of the Storms. The disappointment is that much more bitter when I realize it’s not them—it’s Colin.
I have to blink a couple times before I’m actually certain it’s him. He’s never frequented places like this. In fact, the only times I think he’s ever been to this particular bar was when I dragged him out trying to force him and Cara to form some kind of tolerance for each other. He knows this is her favorite place to hang out.
Which means there’s a good chance he’s here looking for me, I realize as dread sinks like a solid weight in my stomach.
Sure enough, his eyes light up when he catches sight of me. I guess he doesn’t notice the part where I’m glaring in his direction. I don’t want to see him. I definitely don’t want to talk to him. And I sure as hell don’t want to make physical contact with him, which he apparently doesn’t understand because he tries to go in for a hug the second he reaches our table.
As if nothing’s changed and we’ve gone back in time a month to our tumultuous, unsexy relationship. This man used to greet me with hugs instead of kisses.
What the hell had I been thinking?
Seriously?
“Don’t touch me.” I hold a hand up to stop him.
He stops, taking a step back, but his face shows exactly how little he thinks of my rebuff. A sour look pinches up his face as he looks me over, probably judging my sloppy jeans and casual updo per usual. Now he seems to remember our breakup all too well, and much to my annoyance, he looks like he’s judging me. As if I wasn’t the one who left his sorry ass.
Colin sneers. “Why because you’re dating that guy I saw you out with last week?”
“No.” I suddenly feel a surge of pride flow through me, and I realize I don’t want to make excuses. I have every right to own what I’m doing—what I was doing.
I bat my eyelashes at him in the most sarcastic way I can manage. I’m about to lie, but I’m about to do it for good reason. Because honestly, I don’t have to put up with Colin’s judgemental bullshit anymore.
And I mean, his name is Colin Seaman, for fuck’s sake. What right does this guy even have to be that judgemental in the first place?
So I open my mouth and not-so-quietly tell him, “I’m dating the whole team.”
I’ve timed it just perfectly—right as he was taking a sip of his drink. He chokes, spluttering vodka soda all over himself.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I pretend to think about it as I stand up and shrug my shoulders into my coat. “Funny, that’s what we all say about you.”
He takes a step forward in the most menacing way he can probably manage, which is laughable at best considering I work with men who often beat the crap out of each other for fun. Still, Cara jumps right up when he does it. She puts herself between the two of us and stretches to take up as much space as possible.
My best friend is intimidating as hell when she wants to be.
“You should probably run along, Seaman,” she emphasizes his last name. “Gemma’s already got more cum than she can handle,” she finishes with a wink over her shoulder at me.
As Colin’s mouth gapes, I struggle to hold in my laughter. It’s horribly inappropriate and not exactly true now that things with the guys are over—but Colin sure as hell doesn’t need to know that. While he’s doing his fish impersonation, I take a couple steps closer and point my finger at his chest.
“This is not your place. Don’t come around here looking for me again. You had your chance and made your choice, and now I’ve made mine, too. If you show up here again, there’s a good chance none of my boyfriends are going to like that.”
He flinches at the thinly veiled threat. The guys had barely tolerated him before when we were dating, I’m sure he can imagine how things would be now if they were in the same bar together. Not that it matters, because unbeknownst to him the chances of that now are about slim to none.
Things are over. I can never go back to being just friends with the Storms. Which means it’s time to move on. Even if that means moving on for real.
“Let’s go, Cara. I’ve finally had enough for one day.”
She wraps an arm around me as she shoots Colin one last nasty look. I lean into her as we walk out joined at the hip. Between her and my dad, at least I know I’ll always have two people in my life that I can count on.
It’s not twenty-five.
But it’s something.
Forty-Six
Cara
I storm into the Strudford Storms locker room like I own the damn place. The nice thing about a newer team like this is there was only one regular security guard standing between me and this locker room—and he turned out to be really receptive to a bit of sweet talking.
And okay, maybe I gave him my number.
The man carries handcuffs on the regular, who wouldn’t want to give that a try?
But back to the task at hand.
I stare down the team as they all stop what they’re doing and turn to stare open-mouthed at me. They all look tired and grumpy as hell, so I know I’m right about why I’m here.
This whole thing with Gemma has been one fucked up mess. Somebody’s got to fix it. There’s no way I can leave for New York without making sure my bestie is taken care of—even if that means walking into the lion’s den.
Cyrus steps forward with a scowl. “You can’t be here.”
“I’ll be wherever I damn well please, first of all. And second of all, I’m here and you’re going to listen. All of you.”
“Gemma send you here to hand-deliver her resignation letter?” Lee asks, making me see red.
“Listen here you cum-guzzling sewer rats, Gemma’s not fucking resigning. Or at least she wasn’t until you all acted like a bunch of pricks with your panties in a bunch.”
A murmur starts to spread through the crowd as they try to make sense of my words. The sprinkling of insults probably doesn’t help with that, but I’m not taking any of them back. They’ve earned every harsh word I can think to throw at them.
Apparently, Andre’s missed the commotion because he suddenly steps out from the showers with no coverage whatsoever. My eyes widen as I see him in all his glory. And lord, is it glorious. But now’s definitely not the time to get distracted.
“Put that thing away,” I growl as I point at his crotch, where his dick is prominently on display. Wait, is that thing soft? Jesus fucking christ. No wonder Gemma had a bit of a limp while we were away.
Andre desperately tries to cover himself with his hands until one of his teammates takes mercy on him and tosses him a towel. He mutters his thanks as he wraps it around his waist.
Declan breaks from the crowd first, which actually isn’t a surprise based on what Gemma’s told me about him. His face seems to crack open with relief. “She’s not resigning?”
“Nope.”
Declan looks around at the other guys. I notice several of them hang their heads. If I had to guess, Declan probably had some things to say about the idea that Gemma would just jump ship on them. I don’t jump on the Declan bandwagon, though, because he hasn’t reached out to her any more than the rest of them have.
Not even after she called their coach and took a sick day.
Gemma never takes sick days.
Cyrus elbows Declan out of the way. “What do you mean? Lee found her paperwork—”
“No,” I cut him off. “Lee found my paperwork. Gemma was helping me look over the contract because she’s got more experience than I do with stuff like that.”
“But she w
ent to New York,” Mikey pipes up.
“I was meeting my team for the first time and didn’t want to go alone, you dipshits. I got the offer at the last minute and begged her to go. Not that it took much begging when she realized it meant she got to see the Vikings’ facilities all up-close-and-very-personal.” I smirk, making as dirty of an insinuation as I can.
This is the moment of truth. Their reaction will tell me everything I need to know.
The locker room erupts into chaos. Everyone starts yelling at once, all blaming each other and themselves for letting Gemma get away.
I purse my lips and let out a sharp whistle to get their attention back. All their grumbling isn’t solving anything. They need to get their shit together and formulate a real plan. I gather everything I’ve ever learned about coaching from my pre-teen boys and decide to put it to good use in this moment.
Compliment them.
“You all are smart men.”
Appeal to their egos.
“You had something really special with Gemma, and she felt it, too. She’s never cared about anyone the way she cares about all of you.”
Remind them what they did wrong.
“Then you all had to go and fuck it up by thinking the worst of her. And even worse than that, you fought and then let her walk away—and none of you have done anything to make things right still.”
Help them think about how to fix it.
“Gemma’s the kind of girl that acts all tough and then secretly watches rom-coms when she thinks no one else will find out. She might act like she doesn’t need all the gooey, grand, romantic gestures—but she does. She wants those, and she deserves them. Which means you should want to give them to her.”
I make pointed eye contact with each of the players.
Tell them what’s at stake.
“Because if you don’t, someone else will, and then she’ll never be yours. Not ever again.”
And big finale, lay on the guilt.
“If you don’t fix this, I’m going to be really disappointed in you.”
Twenty-five stricken faces stare at me in silence for a long moment before they all start to glance around at each other. I wait for some sign that my words are sinking in.
Mateo’s the first to cave.
He spins around and slams both fists against the lockers, the sound racketing around the rest of the locker room and making my teeth rattle a bit. The other guys look tempted to do the same thing, so I clear my throat before it devolves into a bunch of guys beating their chests like primates instead of fucking fixing the damn thing.
“Make it right, boys. If you don’t, I’m going to have twenty-five cock cages with each of your names on them—twenty-four maybe.” I eye Andre who does everything he can to avoid making eye contact with me. “I’m sure as hell not paying to get one of those things custom built.”
A nervous laugh rises through the ranks and eases some of the tension. Just enough that I know they’re still scared shitless after all I’ve said.
Not because they’re actually scared of my threats—which they probably mistakenly think are empty threats—but because they’re finally realizing they fucked up and might have really just lost the best thing that ever happened to them.
“Make it right,” I tell them firmly one more time.
And as the team slowly starts to nod along with that recommendation, I slink out of the room. I’m going back to check on my girl, and hopefully when I do it’s going to be the last time.
If the guys still don’t fix things after all of that… Hell, I guess I’d drag her ass to New York with me after all. The love I have for Gemma, it’s not romantic, but it is unconditional. I’d call in a thousand favors to the Vikings if it would make her happy.
But I know the truth.
Her heart is here, in this town, in this job, and with these people. The Storms just need to bring her home.
Forty-Seven
Oliver
I pace through my house, a nervous fucking wreck. It wasn’t even a question who was going to throw the New Year’s party this year. Normally it might be Andre or Dillon, even Lars if it came down to it, but we have a whole hell of a lot riding on this going right.
And yeah, maybe I didn’t like Gemma calling me the team mommy, but if there’s any one of us that could pull this shit together on such short notice, it’s definitely me.
That doesn’t mean I haven’t been driving myself fucking crazy trying to get every last detail perfect. Because when I say we have a hell of a lot riding on this, what I really mean to say is this is our one shot to grovel our balls off.
This is our chance to make her see that we’re a team full of goddamn fools.
That we’ll treat her right if she’ll just give us a shot at trying again. Maybe it’s an opportunity we don’t fucking deserve, not after shit went so off the rails a few days ago, but we’re trying.
You know, because I do get where she’s coming from. There are twenty-fucking-five of us—how the hell did we all get so goddamn caught up in the idea that she’d trade us in for another team that none of us bothered to actually reach out to her and see what was actually going on?
We sure would’ve saved ourselves a hell of a lot of heartache if any one of us had managed to not act like a total tool when everything was going down. My eyes catch on one of the poster boards Edric insisted on being part of our apology, and I’m almost tempted to just fucking toss them because they’re cheesy.
But then I think back to Cara letting it slip that Gemma’s a closet romantic, a woman who loves rom-coms even though she’d never actually admit it out loud to anyone. Of course the Englishman wanted to incorporate something from Love, Actually.
I narrow my eyes at the poster boards, eye catching on the word perfect as my stomach somersaults. Yeah, Gemma’s perfect—who the hell else could deal with all of us on a daily basis and not get completely fed up? We’re a handful, each and every one of us, and we sure as hell don’t deserve her.
Which is something that Cara was not too shy to share with us.
The sound of my doorbell pulls me out of my thoughts, and I spare my living room a long glance before I head to the door. It’s probably not perfect, but it’s us and it’s for her, and I think that’s what really matters in the end.
When ten o’clock rolls around and Gemma’s still not here, I start to get really nervous for the first time all night. I run my hand through my hair, bowtie already undone and hanging around my neck, and yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m going to lose my damn mind.
The guys mill around restlessly, and I swear if I hear this damn Peter Gabriel song one more time, I might put a foot through my stereo system. Cara promised she’d get her here even though shit has been weird this week.
None of us questioned it. Not after she’d ripped us a collective new asshole over the way we treated her friend.
Someone suggested having the song from Say Anything periodically pop up in the playlist of cheesy, romantic pop music we’d gone with, and at the time, it seemed like a great idea. But now?
I turn a glare in the direction of the corner where one of the speakers is set up as Last Christmas filters on, and my mouth falls open in shock. Gemma’s standing close to the speaker closest to the front of the room, pinched face lit up by the glow of her cellphone. My mouth goes dry because she’s in a glittery red dress that has all her curves on display with a pair of heels that add several inches to her height.
When the fuck did she sneak in here? And why is she hiding in the corner?
She glances up in time for Jean-Luc to spot her, and my arms go over my chest as I stand across the room, watching him close the distance between the two of them. The music’s too loud and they’re too far away from me to hear what they’re saying, but based on the way she shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, I don’t think it’s going the way the smooth Frenchman expected it to.
She looks nervous, and that fucking guts me.
Gemma begs off from Jean-Luc,
offering him something close to a smile, only to be stopped by Milo before she gets even a few feet on. It’s like watching a car accident the way she bumbles through a short interaction with each one of the guys that decides he wants to try to talk to her before excusing herself.
Cara’s nowhere in sight even though she said she’d stay in case shit went real sideways. I don’t know if that’s a good sign or a bad one, but I do know it’s not fucking helping matters. She doesn’t have anyone here with her, and she just keeps getting hounded by the guys.
It’s when I see Cyrus and Mateo marching toward her, shoulder to shoulder, that I decide enough’s enough. There’s a look of absolute panic on her face, and it sets everything inside of me on fire.
It’s time to take care of this. No more awkward side-stepping. No more car crashes. No more being dickheads. All this awkwardness ends tonight.
I make it to Gemma a few feet before Cyrus and Mateo, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and dragging her toward the hall. I can hear the two of them shouting after us, but I haul her through down the hall, further and further away from the noise at the front of the house.
“Oliver…”
There’s no use pretending the way she says my name doesn’t make my spine stiffen with awareness. Fuck, I’d give anything to make this all right again.
Gemma digs her heels in, dragging us to a stop just before we get to the patio. “Oliver, stop. Please.” The pleading tone in her voice is like a bucket of ice cold water being tossed over my head.
I put my back to the patio doors, facing toward the front of the house as she crosses her arms over her chest and stares up at me with a tired sort of sadness in her eyes. My heart pounds in my chest, and my body feels like I’ve been thrown against a live wire.
Everything about the way she’s guarding herself, the way she looks like she’s not quite sure she trusts herself to be here, fucking guts me.
“I’m sorry,” I start, but I heave a deep breath and correct myself. “No, we’re sorry. We fucked up, obviously.”
